


All This Blood (Under My Skin)

by ignited



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-31
Updated: 2005-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaving school, surviving the war, and all the ways of failing in the between time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All This Blood (Under My Skin)

**Author's Note:**

> For the **pornish_pixies** May Fantasy Fest. **piasharn** requested: "Sirius/Remus post-Hogwarts, but not long before James and Lily's deaths. First time, but with a(n implied) history of unrequited sexual tension. Buttsex. Rough. Hard. Dirty." Many, many thanks to **anniesj** and **regala_electra** for inspiration, as well as beta-ing.

  
  
**all this blood (under my skin)**  
{ _remus lupin/sirius black_ }  
  


“If things were right, you know, I’d wear you thin, bone  
dry, and wake you in the morning licking at your spine  
and pulling at your hair, and you’d like it, yeah?

“You really would.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
It’s the third time this month that Sirius dreams of his own death.  
  
In it, he is a lifeless rag doll spattered with blood, his neck streaked red and pink and purple, strangled to death. The sheets beneath him are stained brown, and streaks of brown edge down the wooden frame of the bed, make the floor flaky and rough. He’s been dead for days, ages and ages, and he knows he’s rotting because he can _feel_ it. The way the flesh becomes sunken in, the buzzing in his ears and the cold air against the open mess of his torso.  
  
And in this dream, as always, Remus puts out his cigarette by plunging it into the mess of Sirius’s intestines, cold, bloody flesh, before he curls up against Sirius’s sunken shoulder and breathes against his skin.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
As always, Sirius ignores the prospect of mentioning the dream to Remus, because although he waits and longs for that spark, he cannot stand to see a pained look on his face. A look that doesn’t relate to those transformations.  
  
Three days until the moon.  
  
Remus’s hand trembles slightly when he lifts the slice of buttered toast to his mouth in the morning after.  
  
Sirius keeps the dream to himself.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Sirius has taken a habit of misplacing his cigarettes on purpose, if only to bum some off of Remus. It’s a new habit, Remus’s smoking. It’s dirty and not at all good for one’s health, as Sirius will point out in a stuffy, mocking voice, cant his head and let his hair fall in his eyes while doing so. And Remus will only roll his eyes, produce one of those slim cylinders from a perfect box of cigarettes in a shabby pocket, and he’ll light it up. He’ll let the fire burn just so, then take a drag – testing the waters – and then offer it to Sirius. Always the gentleman, always the fucking wonderful paradox: polite with an unhealthy vice, a man and a monster.  
  
It’s a simple gesture, the cigarettes, yet Sirius takes what he can get.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
There are times, when the full moon is near, that Sirius sees Remus for what he truly is, in Sirius’s eyes, because what he sees must be what others should see, without all the fancy bullshit and other trappings. It’s pure and clear and _there_ , you see, Sirius’s view on things. Remus would call him an elitist and then withstand a rambling, mocking speech from Sirius about the proud Black family afterwards. And although the Black family is nothing but golden threads on a tapestry joined by splatters of blood, they are singular in their views.  
  
They are singular, Sirius is, his focus sharp despite the lank hair in his eyes and the dark surroundings. He is tired now, but that’s not relevant: Remus is tired, worn around the edges, all softness gone, merely pacing, pacing and waiting. He waits for James to come back from Dumbledore’s office, with a nervous Peter in tow, waits for James to give Sirius their sentence for misconduct. Remus is clearly going over each neat bullet point of reprimand in his mind, each little instance where Sirius has broken the rules far too many times and “they’ll kick you out, you know, Sirius, I’ve told you time and time again. Then you’ll be gone and where will I be?”  
  
“Having a good wank. You’ll fucking need it; you’ll miss me terribly,” Sirius will deadpan, mouth independent of his brain. “Don’t worry about it, Moony.”  
  
Remus is fraying at the edges, his hair a bird’s nest and his starch collar undone, just a slip of pale white skin visible in the soft candlelight. And there’s a scar tracing his collarbone, self-inflicted. Sirius watches it in the dark, the thin skin rising and shifting over the collarbone as Remus paces back and forth.  
  
He watches, raises his hand to touch that scar when Remus passes, only to have Remus jump away. Shakes his head, that old slow movement done too many times in Sirius’s presence, and Remus continues pacing.  
  
“You’ll never learn, Sirius. It’s not in you,” Remus is saying, his voice straining and his face hollowed out by the candle light. He’s on the edge, and he won’t scream or shout because he’s Remus; he’s untouchable. His skin stretches too tight across his features and he seems on the verge of shattering, a grotesque expression of resignation on his face. He looks far older than he should, too thin and tired, and Sirius will trace the lines of his face with his eyes, burn them into his memory.  
  
It is all that he can _have_ , and he hates himself for it.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Before the moon, Remus has a habit of pacing the length of the dorm room, an animal locked in a cage. He’s very quiet when he does, up until a point where he says that it’s time, that it will come. He needs to go with Madam Pomfrey, and “don’t be late, Sirius, don’t be, please.” By then his voice slips into a slightly lower register, a hint of a rasp, a growl, that sends delicious shivers down Sirius’s spine.  
  
As much as he wants to deny it, Sirius loves Remus the most during these times.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
He thinks the most opportune time is when Remus wakes in the infirmary the morning after the prank.  
  
Soon enough, Remus’s eyes flutter open and Sirius stares right into them, nose to nose, side by side on the bed. He feels clumsy and awkward, childish when words spill out, begging, rushing, trying to reach for that slip of forgiveness, apologizing because “I didn’t mean it, Moony, it was a joke and it got out of hand. Please, Moony—”  
  
“Ahh.” Remus breathes out, gingerly touches the bandages on his chin.  
  
He isn’t able to hide a wince and he starts checking the other wounds, his mind unfocused, like coming out of a dream.  
  
Sirius waits.  
  
“It’s fine, Sirius.”  
  
Sirius feels like a gun cocked, ready for the shot that never arrives. He has waited for hours, endless stretches of silence disturbed by Remus’s soft breathing, for only a soft word of acceptance. No disapproval. Nothing.  
  
Remus shifts a little, closes his eyes. Sirius _hates_ him for it.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Before they graduate, Remus is aflutter with responsibilities, lots of words for meaningless things that fly over Sirius’s head, that are _blocked_ out. He doesn’t care for these last minute tasks, sorting oneself out and going before McGonagall or Dumbledore and asking what will become of him. Remus does, writes himself a list (bullet points and little squiggles of asterisks), and brings _pamphlets_ , even.  
  
And then Sirius whispers against Remus’s ear, kneeling down by him just so, breathing out a joke against the nape of Remus’s neck. He tells him naughty things, or whatever’s going around these days in the Quidditch locker room. Just to hear that ‘ahh’ and noise of disapproval in Remus’s throat, to watch the coloring of his skin and that soft line of shadow between Remus’s neck and dress shirt.  
  
Remus points to the parchment in front of him, mumbles something along the lines of Arithmancy, and “could you please let me finish it?”  
  
“Fuck your Arithmancy,” Sirius responds with a growl, crumpling the parchment with his fist before he knows it. “Fuck it, Remus. We’re out of here. Last minute things won’t matter. We’ll leave this place for good.”  
  
He wants to say that they should both take advantage of the time they’ve spent here. Of all the hours that they’ve sat around in their dorm talking about life, the universe, and everything else. Times right after Qudditch practice, times before exams, breakfast, dinner, shoulder to shoulder. “All those fucking times, they’re over.”  
  
“They aren’t as long as you remember them, hold them close.” Remus gets up out of his seat abruptly and stares at Sirius. They are an inch, maybe two inches apart. Remus’s face looks pale, drawn. There are secrets in his eyes and truths in the lines of his face, mystery etched in the pink and red of those scars.  
  
Sirius waits for Remus to dismiss him, get angry, fucking _react_ , anything, anything—  
  
“You’re wound up too tight for your own good.”  
  
He says it very, very casually. Then Remus sweeps out of the room, not before he brushes his hand gently against Sirius’s hip. Simply pushes a little to move him out of the way. Straightforward little gesture that makes Sirius flop angrily into the chair and just rock back and forth, embarrassed and entirely disgusted by the warmth in his trousers. Not completely grasping why he’s shivering and shaking, fever, impending death, god, whatever it is let it be _done_.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Two days later, they graduate, and it _is_ done.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Time passes and people move on.  
  
It isn’t like some storybook. Sirius is aware of that. After graduation, he takes up with James, not Remus. He listens to James prattle on about Lily this and Lily that, watches James take out the trash in his underwear (and subsequently excuses himself to wander off to the bathroom). He feels he’s growing soft and useless, lying about on James’s couch and eating chocolates (because he liked them more, Remus would carry them around for _Sirius_ ).  
  
In reality, he knows he’s simply growing paler and bony each day, watches his skin color flush to life whenever Remus sends an owl, informing them of his activities. Might send a little brown package or two. An artifact, some item of clothing. Little trinkets. James says they should meet Remus and they do, sometimes. Remus disappears for long stretches of time and comes back older, different. He’ll have more scars, a few more streaks of grey in his hair.  
  
The process of meeting each other again each time dissolves to a formula: exchange of greetings, gifts, Sirius admonishing Remus for not being nearby for the full moon, Remus admonishing Sirius for not eating when he’s skin and bones himself. Then they have drinks, they all laugh, the Marauders and Lily, and remember _things_.  
  
Every single time, Sirius simply stares at Remus, gives a slight quirk of his mouth, a tiny little smile. He makes jokes and laughs at the appropriate times, but never tears his eyes away from Remus.  
  
There are times when he thinks ‘ _this is it_ ’ but James will shove Sirius and initiate a mock fight, so Sirius can only carry it along and get dark stains of liquor on his jacket.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
The war is in glorious full swing. Perhaps glorious is too nice of a word. It’s death and disease after all. But anything so resplendent in destruction and uncertainty must be rife with pageantry and song. Buildings are blown to bits, people too, articles in the _Daily Prophet_ showing the aftermath, the grinning and screaming faces of captured and suspected Death Eaters.  
  
After a good few months spent in lazy, self-exiled bliss—granted, there was James but Lily, Lily, always off with sodding _Lily_ — Sirius wakes up and helps.  
  
A good week or so after he does, Remus comes back from another long stretch. Turns out he’s picked up a job at a bookstore in London. “Good for you. Bet you’re happy bein’ surrounded by all those words every day.”  
  
“It’s…” He shrugs. A hint of a scar on his wrist before it slips away in his jacket pocket. “Good. Relaxing.”  
  
“Bet it is.”  
  
Sirius squints, as the sun’s in his eyes and there’s grease on his shirt and hands. Remus leans near Sirius’s motorcycle, running his long fingers over the handlebars. He doesn’t care about flying or driving, but he can appreciate inanimate beauty. He always has. Like when they had to look at old Muggle paintings that didn’t actually _move_ , but for some reason he liked them anyway—  
  
“Are you okay, Sirius?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sirius edges towards the motorcycle engine, ignoring the urge to wipe his forehead with a greasy hand.  
  
“I talked to James. He said you’re acting a bit odd lately.”  
  
“You haven’t been around long enough lately,” Sirius points out.  
  
Remus laughs. Sirius drops a wrench before immediately picking it up. “I’ve _known_ you long enough to form an opinion, haven’t I?”  
  
“It’s nothing,” Sirius says, staying quiet for the rest of the afternoon.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Spring rolls by like a wisp of smoke in the air. It dissipates, and summer blows into place. By this time, Sirius has participated in a number of missions for the Order and has racked up an impressive number of achievements. It’s strange to work with Remus again, to see him as often as he did in Hogwarts. They are not the type to go for drinks after work, but they do visit each other from time to time. Things are normal.  
  
It’s around the end of September that James nudges Sirius casually during a celebratory dinner, gestures for him to lean over and says that something’s wrong. That there’s a spy.  
  
The setting is supposed to be congratulatory – Remus, saved another wizarding family, took out five Death Eaters – and not dark. No mention of work. No mention of adulthood. But James says it, in a low breath, that there’s a spy and they aren’t sure who it is. “Now isn’t the time, I’ll admit, but better here than putting it off any longer. Do you know, Sirius? Any ideas?”  
  
Remus watches the festivities from his place leaning against the wall at the opposite end of the room. The fireplace snaps and crackles, bathing half of him in gold, the other half cast in silhouette. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Sirius watches him behind his long fringe, clears his throat. He feels hot, sweaty.  
  
“Do you, Sirius?”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“I’d take you as my own and then _let_ you fuck me,  
because you’ve wanted it. You _have_. Don’t you  
fucking _deny_ it! You can’t go and be like that, the way  
you are, stand there in your fucking sweaters and  
your fucking patched trousers and _smile_ like you do  
and not want it. You might’ve driven me mad,  
but you want it just as much as I have.

Then I’d be _rid_ of you, and I  
could be in fucking _peace_.”

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Sirius kills seventeen more Death Eaters by the time he sees Remus again.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
A week into October and Sirius finds himself at Remus’s door before he knows it, bloody fingers tugging at the doorknob before he leaves shaky handprints on the door. He bangs on it a few times, screams, his voice and body raw. The rain comes down in sheets, sending everything into black, white, and grey, colors only in the soft orange lights of street lamps. There’s thunder too, which makes it all the more melodramatic, Sirius thinks fuzzily. A few seconds later, Remus opens it, rushing to catch Sirius, who falls in an undignified heap in Remus’s small foyer.  
  
Remus says his name, over and over, trying to wake that shivering mess of a boy-not-yet-a-man, trying to pour something old and familiar back into him. “Sirius. What happened? Sirius. Sirius!”  
  
Sirius.  
  
Things click into place, Sirius looking up. The surroundings are what he’s always envisioned – warm, earthy tones, crackling fireplace, rows and rows of battered books. Soft scent of cinnamon in the air. Warm and comfortable. All it needs is a dog or some throw pillows. Remus probably has a lot of those. Comfy ones.  
  
“Pay attention, Sirius. You need to leave.”  
  
Sirius jerks his head up, eyes focusing. Remus. Beautiful. Just beautiful.  
  
He feels Remus’s hand on his arm, pulling him up. Remus talking and telling him that he needs to leave, that the moon will rise, and that he must rest for a while after. He has business to take care of. Business he doesn’t feel like discussing, so don’t ask. Business that certainly doesn’t have to deal with killing Muggles, right? Right?  
  
Sirius would like to think so. And if he is a spy, _the_ spy, the sad thing is, Sirius doesn’t care.  
  
Soon enough, his body jerks out of Remus’s grasps and he rails at him, curses and yells, guttural noises that soon shift and form words, words that tell Remus he’s a fucking spy, “aren’t you, you fucking prat, you’re always _gone_ and you’ve never thought one bit about me, haven’t you? Haven’t you, bastard—”  
  
“You’re very selfish, Sirius.”  
  
That, you see, is the trigger that Sirius has waited years for. That little slip of rudeness, of _truth_ , for he _is_ selfish, stupid, a bastard that wants things he doesn’t even _know_ he wants. Wants things for the sake of having them, to please his eyes and his appetite. That is when Sirius grabs Remus, grabs with sticky, bloody fingers and slams the quiet bastard into a wall, fucking grabs him by the jaw and kisses him.  
  
“You’ve wanted it, you’ve wanted it,” Sirius repeats, over and over, pinning Remus to the wall by his wrists, kissing the scar on Remus’s collarbone. He thinks it’s some sort of sign, or an omen, whichever, that has Remus wearing a robe, light clothing. Not thinking he’d be attacked, that he’d get his damn scarred face ripped right off by Sirius Black’s ferocity.  
  
In the back of his mind, Sirius thinks that if he voices this chant, that it’ll snare the lines of magic around them, pluck and curl them into shape around Remus’s mind and slice in, burn in Sirius’s wish, his mad desire. He tries it over and over, wishing that Remus _does_ , reassures himself that he must and it can’t just be Sirius going insane, it can’t. That Remus is the one saying “no” and “yes” at once, rendering both into meaningless words.  
  
 _Remus_ kisses Sirius back, Remus is the one who reciprocates and just as savagely pushes Sirius away as his back slams against a door frame.  
  
“You bloody lunatic. You idiot!” Remus growls, body shaking. In need of a fix, the way the moon rises unseen, shakes the house invisibly and sends those shockwaves into Remus’s frame, electricity from an unknown source. “You can’t barge into my flat and … _do_ that! One doesn’t say that—”  
  
“I don’t care about manners. I don’t care. I don’t. I don’t.” Sirius shakes as well, arms behind his back. He feels the blood drying on his hands. “Y’know how we were always on about being open? You kept your own secret locked away for years and I’ve got my own right standing before you, fucking prat. I _want_ you.”  
  
Remus stares. He has his mouth open – fucking prat indeed – and this horrible stupid, stupid stare, before he tells Sirius to leave again.  
  
“The moon. The fucking _moon_ ,” Remus says, very slowly, as though explaining to a small child. “You need to leave before I _change_ , Sirius.”  
  
“Fuck the moon. I _need_ this. I _am_ a selfish bastard, I know it. But I need it, and I need you and God—” Sirius staggers, nearly trips, grabbing onto Remus’s trouser pockets for support. “Don’t you fucking _want_ it?”  
  
Before Remus can have a chance to stay quiet once more, Sirius slams his mouth against Remus’s own, bites Remus’s tongue and _prevents_ Remus from speaking. Pins Remus’s arms against the wall and _prevents_ Remus from pushing him away. Coaches on those growls emanating from Remus’s throat, kisses and licks and _prevents_ Remus from denying him because he feels fit to burst, fucking die right here and now and be clichéd as all fuck, he doesn’t fucking care.  
  
And then he goes on, and on, ranting and raving, between kissing Remus’s neck and shoving his cheek against cold, sweaty skin, brushing stubble against it. He keeps up the friction, lets his fingers dig into Remus’s trousers and lets Remus flail and fumble against him, pull his jacket off with the same fervor.  
  
It’s a strange production, an ungraceful dance of limbs that flail and mouths that lock, teeth that clack, like toys wound up too tight and suddenly blast off, their actions frantic. Remus and Sirius do that unknowingly well, the way they move: Sirius pushing, rather, slamming Remus up against the wall once again and trying to pull his trousers down. The trousers burn Remus’s skin, the sheer force of friction, at least Sirius hopes it does. Hopes it’ll burn him, burn him up good, because he needs someone else to feel that sort of madness.  
  
Remus, throughout all this, rebels as much as he accepts. He breathes against Sirius’s lips, bids him to stop, that he feels _it_ rising low in his belly, snaking through his limbs. ‘round his cock, too, a binding sensation that then sends Remus bright, awake, twisting Sirius’s arms to pin him against the wall.  
  
“You fucking _cunt_.”  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
“You’re not listening, are you?”  
  
That lower register is there, that low voice that sends chills, makes Sirius tremble and shake with need, makes those briefs, those trousers too damn tight against his growing erection. It’s bothersome; no, it’s ridiculous, that _Remus_ of all people makes him feel like this, like a little boy ready to spill all over his legs, after a few kisses and some groping.  
  
Remus traces his fingertips against Sirius’s neck, chest, pushes the shirt collar away so he’ll have more room. His fingers are wet, sliding little traces of sweat, saliva, sticky paths that glisten in the scant light coming from the foyer window. He waits; Sirius moans.  
  
“I’m _not_ , because you talk too much, Moony,” Sirius grunts, still shaking, mouth set in a line. “Please, Moony, _please_ \--”  
  
“I might kill you in a few minutes, and you want me to—”  
  
“Fuck me, yes, I’m _asking_ you, showing up right here and _do_ it, please, please…” His voice is hoarse, dissolving into scratchy breaths, coughing, raw and tired. “ _Do_ it.”  
  
“Fine, then.”  
  
A growl and Sirius lunges forward, sending Remus to the floor.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
There’s a crack against wood, a curse and clattering noise as Sirius sends Remus to the floor right near the mahogany staircase. Thin, scarred limbs, too many points and angles scramble against the wood, up and up, as Sirius pulls Remus’s trousers off, following. They kiss and fumble, mouths clash, Sirius reaching past too many garments, too much clothing to grab Remus’s cock. Dried blood flakes off his fingers as he feels the slickness of pre-come, something simple that _still_ sends him reeling.  
  
They will be bruised in the morning, more than bruised, shredded, at the rate this is going. Remus is too tall, Sirius is too clumsy, yet they make their way up the staircase, kissing and fumbling with clothing, the hard edges of the stairs bruising and purpling already bony limbs.  
  
Three-fourths up the stairs and Sirius’s finally got the right combination: trousers down enough to let him straddle Remus. Streaked red-brown fingers pull and twist Remus’s hair, the other hand gripping one of the staircase railing columns as he balances precariously on bony hips. Ignore the purpling bruises spreading on their bodies and how the flecks of blood stick to their skin. Sirius momentarily releases his hold on the railing, one finger, two fingers, pushes at Remus’s opening.  
  
Remus moans.  
  
“Finally,” Sirius murmurs, just as he pushes his cock in, and the lights short out.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
There’s a perfect snapshot of want and need: Remus, spread eagle on the stairs, a red bruise at his temple from hitting the stairs far too hard. Sirius, black hair lank and twisted in Remus’s fingers, head between Remus’s legs, sucking him off. Soft, wet noises, kisses along the underside of Remus’s cock, little laps and swirls at the tip, just like a dog, whimpering and humming pleased noises.  
  
Remus murmurs something like ‘bastard’, bone-white knuckles, gripping the edge of the stairs and railing. The wood splinters under his grasp.  
  
Sirius shifts a little, brings his knee off a stair and bangs it painfully against the one below. Then he rights himself, growls, rough, sucks Remus off still, the dark spots swimming in his vision.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
The lights come back on and flash soft, golden brilliance against them both. By now their shirts are off and clothing are piled at their feet. Sirius moans, keeps moaning, Remus thrusting into him, pushing him against the wall. He breathes against Sirius’s neck, whispers, groans against Sirius’s ear, one hand on his neck, the other on his hip, then on his buttocks.  
  
It’s a frightening hold that Remus has on Sirius, thumb brushing the vertebrae, the soft hair at the nape. The other hand pulling Sirius back, towards Remus, just as Remus thrusts in further. Sweat and friction get in the way, legs slide and burn against each other.  
  
Sirius bucks and thrashes, a wild colt, bids Remus ‘harder’, relishes those stinging bruises of Remus’s fingertips against his neck, now his shoulders. Remus keeps on thrusting, breathing erratic, just as he leans very close against Sirius’s ear.  
  
“You’re wound up too tight for your own good. Didn’t I tell you?” he says, licks Sirius’s earlobe. “And now look. You’re a mess, Sirius. A complete and utter mess.”  
  
He tells him to relax, but that only earns Sirius’s contempt, wildly thrashing, shaking and fumbling against the wall. With each futile grasp of the wall, Sirius stains it with the brown flakes, with the sweat, the scant traces of non-dried blood. He’s well aware of his actions; well aware that Remus is the one fucking _him_ , in actuality now, fucking him like he’s always wanted, like the dog he is, like the unrepentant bitch he can’t help but be. _“Moony—”_  
  
Remus nips at Sirius’s earlobe, earning a scream of pain that dissolves into another bout of moaning, just as he lets go, releases right in him.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
The lights flicker again, painting a black and gold picture on the second landing floor. Sirius crawls over to Remus after both have crashed to the floor. He lets his fingers simply drag along the slick and scarred surface of Remus’s leg, lets the hairs run the wrong way in sweat. He runs his hand up Remus’s leg until he reaches the juncture of hipbone, thigh, crotch. Slides his hand further, down the length of Remus’s cock and pumps it in his fist, not too fast, or slow, only _just_. He’s too tired, too embarrassed by his past whimpering to let go and stop.  
  
Remus lies on his back and stares at the shadows against the ceiling, the light in the hallway window casting black spots of rain against it. He tries to bat Sirius’s hands away weakly, tries to tell him to stop. He’s shaking still, trembling, twitching, trying to smack his cheek against the cold wooden floor to wake himself up.  
  
“Time, it’s time,” he says, lips sweaty, face fevered, trying to push Sirius away.  
  
Despite the fact that he keeps on for a few more moments, Sirius knows it is, but cannot bring himself to move. He lamely crawls away, lets his back rest against the decorative wallpaper he tried to scratch off minutes before. Bare, wet legs, dirty fingers, hair in sweaty clumps that stick against his forehead, cheekbones.  
  
Remus makes a noise, a whimpering one, that turns out to be a question. Sirius feels his ears are muffled. “Why did you come?”  
  
“Because it’s safe. It’s safe, here,” Sirius says, tries to rub his dirty hands against the wetness of his thighs. “It’s safe.”  
  
It isn’t safe, never has been, and it’ll only get worse.  
  
Sirius decides to hide his palms behind his back, but they are the least of his worries once Remus starts to groan in pain.  
  
END


End file.
